


The Shrapnel in Your Heart

by EmilliaGryphon, Skarabrae_stone



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bleeding Hearts, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky meets someone as emotionally and physically damaged as he is, Cybernetics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experiments, Friendship, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Infinity (Marvel), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Rocket makes a friend, Rocket needs a hug, platonic friendship, when raccoons are relatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 09:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14422413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilliaGryphon/pseuds/EmilliaGryphon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: “Buck?” Steve looked at him in concern. “You okay?”Bucky turned to face him, the familiar what-has-Steve-roped-me-into-now feeling washing over him.Robots and cryo and aliens and now a damned space-raccoon. You have got to be kidding me, Stevie.“Put me back,” he demanded. “I’m done, this is it, I wanna go back in cryo.”OR: Rocket and Bucky go on a mission together. It turns out they have a lot more in common than they realized.





	The Shrapnel in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> You can blame [EmilliaGryphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilliaGryphon) for this one. She had the idea, I had to put my two cents in, and 12,000 words later, here we are! It's been fun putting our favorite grumpy cyborgs together.  
> Content warnings for violence, discussion of torture.  
> Come visit us at [trashpandaorigins](https://trashpandaorigins.tumblr.com/) and [skarabrae-stone](https://skarabrae-stone.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

Bucky wasn’t fazed by much. After all the shit he’d seen and done, saving the world wasn’t that big a deal. Even the aliens weren’t much of a stretch—and anyway, they looked pretty much like the stereotypical humanoid creatures he remembered from the sci-fi novels he’d read as a kid. The green woman even reminded him of Romanoff, which was comforting, in a scary kind of way.

Then a gun-toting raccoon walked in, arguing with what looked like a giant talking tree, and Bucky backed up right into Steve.

“Oh, hell, no.”

“Buck?” Steve looked at him in concern. “You okay?”

Bucky turned to face him, the familiar what-has-Steve-roped-me-into-now feeling washing over him. _Robots and cryo and aliens and now a damned space-raccoon. You have_ got _to be kidding me, Stevie._

“Put me back,” he demanded. “I’m done, this is it, I wanna go back in cryo.”

“Bucky--”

“There’s a talking tree, Stevie! What the hell!”

The tree in question tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, reluctantly, to see it scrutinizing him with solemn eyes.

“I AM GROOT,” it announced in a voice that started out deep, then cracked like a teenager’s.

“And if you got a problem with that, you can deal with me!” added the raccoon-thing.

Bucky blinked. “Uh.”

“Of course we don’t have a problem,” said Steve, smooth for once in his life. “Just haven’t met many—uh—non… Earth… people… before.”

“I am Groot?”

“We got that, thanks,” said Bucky irritably, brushing past the tree-thing as he followed Steve further into the interior of the spaceship. “Seriously, Steve, how the hell do you always get mixed up in these things?”

“Talent,” said Steve vaguely. “Did you see where Thor went? I wanted to ask more about the Infinity stones….”

Bucky sighed, rolled his eyes, and trailed after him, cataloguing exits and hazards as he went. The ship smelled like gun oil, charred leather, and old blood, familiar scents in this decidedly unfamiliar environment. He was doomed to follow Steve, he knew, wherever he led him; it was an old pattern, as old as their friendship, and as they walked along he couldn’t help mutter the mantra they’d picked up in the thirties: “ _Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”_

 

“I am Groot!” Groot folded his arms, glaring daggers at the human who muttered to himself.

“They _are_ stupid humies,” Rocket agreed.

“Hey! What did I tell you?” Peter demanded, hands on his hips. “We’re not calling anyone stupid.”

“That cave-man-looking guy called Groot a tree!” snapped Rocket. “Flarking racist.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “C’mon dude, I told you, we need to make nice with these guys. They’re the only ones who can help us defeat Thanos.” Apparently realizing that Steve Rogers had already left, he quickly motioned for his team to follow him.

“Fine,” Rocket conceded, falling in behind him. “But that cave-man one gives me the creeps.” Everything about this whole situation gave him the creeps. Humans couldn’t be trusted, and there were so many of them. If Groot were his full size, perhaps Rocket might have felt better, knowing he could perch on the flora colossus’s shoulders, but it hadn’t been that way for a long while now.

“His name is Bucky Barnes,” Gamora hushed him. “And apparently he’s dangerous, and Rogers’s boyfriend or something, so try not to antogonize him.”

Peter gave the raccoon a pleading look as all of them caught up with Steve Rogers in the Milano’s main bay.

The Avenger smiled, a little awkwardly. “This is a nice ship you’ve got here.”

Peter nodded, but Rocket looked around at the strange new people. The broad with the red hair moved with the same sort of warrior’s grace as Gamora. He wondered who could take who in a fight.

“I appreciate you all coming here,” Steve continued. “As you know, Thanos…”

“Thanos must be stopped!” Drax interjected, resulting in a few stares. But Rocket watched Steve nodding his head in agreement.

“You’re right, he must be stopped at any and all costs.”

 

As Steve spoke about their best approach, Bucky listened, knowing how much all of this troubled his best friend. It wasn’t enough that Steve had saved him, he felt he had to save the whole world, too. Had to be the upstanding leader. Bucky knew how much that responsibility weighed on Steve’s shoulders.

He sympathized, of course, but it didn’t make him love the plan.  Sure, they needed to figure out what the hell was up with these giant portal things. Ironman was checking out the one in New York, which left the one in Wakanda for the rest of them to tackle. But Bucky would have been a hell of a lot happier in the ground troops with King T’Challa than dinking around with magic alien technology in the middle of Thanos’s army.

“We can’t just go rushing into this,” Steve continued. “We need to know what we’re dealing with. This is a reconnaissance mission, not an attack. Once we understand what Thanos is doing, and how he’s doing it, we’ll be in a much better position to beat him in the long run.”

It made sense, Bucky had to admit. On the other hand, he’d been part of enough of Steve Rogers’s harebrained schemes to know that all their carefully laid plans would probably fall apart the minute they got there.

"Banner, Foster, and Strange are going to get in close so they can figure out how exactly this... portal thing works. Group Alpha will be their protection detail. Groups Beta and Charlie will run interference, draw attention away from Alpha so they can get the information they need. Everyone else is staying here, with T’Challa." Steve looked around, making eye contact with everyone.  “Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Okay. Here are the groups, then. In Alpha, we have Thor, Gamora, Mantis, Groot, me, and Bucky. In Beta, Falcon, Witch, uh… what was your name again?”

“Drax. Drax the Destroyer,” responded the tattooed alien.

Steve nodded, affirming. “Drax, yes, Quill, and Nebula.” His eyes scanned the group. “Loki, Hawkeye, Widow, and… uh… the racoon...”

“I’m not a raccoon!” The very distinctly-raccoon-looking one snapped, baring his teeth.

“Of...of course.”

Bucky had to hold back a laugh. Steve tried to get him to be as polite as possible, but even the gracious Steven Rogers occasionally slipped up.

“Rocket,” Quill said. “His name’s Rocket.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Steve earnestly. “My mistake. Anyway, you four are in group Charlie.”

Rocket growled in displeasure.  “Nuh-uh! Either Groot comes with me, or I don’t come at all!”

“I am Groot!”

“Oh ‘I don’t _know_ you, I don’t _know_ your _life_?’ Bullshit,” Rocket fired back.

The adolescent tree-alien rolled his eyes, folding gangly arms. Bucky could only stare in semi-bewildered irritation.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in the back. “According to you, Groot is still an adolescent. I want him to be with the strongest group, so we can protect him if need be. Rocket, you and Quill both stated that your strong suit is melee fighting. Alpha group is basically doing guard duty. We need you in the distraction team.”

It made sense. All of Steve’s choices made sense, evenly dividing varying skillsets between the groups. There was only one thing that didn’t compute…

“Steve,” said Romanoff, “Group Charlie doesn’t have any super-soldiers.”

Loki glared at her. “I’ll have you know I’m a god--”

“And not one who’s particularly good at fighting,” she retorted. “You don’t count.” She returned her focus to Steve. “Clint should switch out with someone a little less… breakable. No offense, Clint.”

“None taken.”

Steve frowned. “I put Clint on your team so you’d have a sniper.”

“So put Barnes in. He’s a sniper, and enhanced, and he’s a hell of a lot better in hand-to-hand. No offense, Clint.”

“None taken.”

Bucky saw the mulish expression on Steve’s face, and sighed. This was 1943 all over again. “Captain Rogers,” he said, in the tone he used to use when about to disagree with one of Steve’s more foolhardy plans. From Steve’s expression, he recognized both the tone and the meaning of the title—during the war, he’d only ever called him “Captain” when Steve was being ridiculous.

He lifted his chin slightly, looking Steve right in the eye. “She’s right. Team Alpha doesn’t need me, and I’ll be a better asse—I can be more useful running interference.”

Steve’s brows drew together, a line of worry creasing his forehead. Bucky could read the expression without hearing a word: _What if something happens to you, and I’m not there?_

Bucky responded with the tiniest of shrugs, one corner of his mouth tugging upward ever so slightly. _It’s a war, pal. Nothin’ you can do about that._

Steve sighed, shoulders slumping. _Okay, you win._

“Alright, Sergeant Barnes,” he said aloud. “You’re on Team Charlie. Clint, Alpha. It’ll be dark in two hours. We’ll move out then.”

The group broke up, everyone heading in different directions. The racoon— _Rocket_ , Bucky reminded himself—had been staring at him for the past five minutes. The old Bucky probably would have responded to this with an aggressive swagger and a “Whatchoo lookin’ at?”.  Now, he just stared back, wrapping the quiet menace of the Winter Soldier around him like a second skin. This tactic didn’t seem to work all that well on Rocket, though; the second the meeting adjourned, he marched over to Bucky and looked him up and… well, further up.

“What the hell kind of a name is Bucky?” he demanded.

Bucky just looked back at him, long enough to make it uncomfortable, before giving him a predatory grin. “The kind that sticks.”

—

Darkness fell, bringing with it a flurry of activity as everyone prepared to move out. Rocket found Bucky Barnes staring out one of the windows with a grim expression. From this vantage point, the purple glow in the sky was clearly visible.

“Doesn’t even look real,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the portal. “I thought I’d seen it all, but…”

“You ain’t even left this planet before. You ain’t seen nothin’,” Rocket retorted, but the hair on his neck rose with Bucky’s. He looked over the humies— well, he guessed the one in the fancy green and black getup was a god of some sort. Whatever, didn’t matter to him.

“Just follow me.” As he led them down the corridor of the ship towards the small pods, he couldn’t help looking around for Groot, already assembling with his team. This would be their first time apart since…well he never wanted to dwell on that day ever again. The teen looked at him. For once he wasn’t glaring, just...anxious. For a second, Rocket could almost see those large, friendly, worried eyes of his original Groot.

“Hey, it’s gonna be alright, buddy.”

Groot didn’t seem convinced. Rocket managed a sardonic grin before splitting off.

“Don’t touch anything,” he said, opening the smaller ship pod. Enough for four to fit if they squeezed. Widow, or Natasha, as Rocket had heard Rogers call her, slid into the seat beside him, instantly looking over the ship’s monitors and rigs.

“Impressive.”

Rocket smirked. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, humie.”

 

Bucky sat in the seat behind Rocket, stuffed like a sardine in this tin can of a ship. _I’m in a spaceship being piloted by a raccoon. Steve, I swear if we get through this…_

He immediately identified the exit of the ship, as well as three other possible escape routes if need be, running through the index of threats and means of attack as well as getting out. It had large windows, breakable with enough force, he suspected.

The ship detached from the Milano with a series of whirs and clicks.

“Hold onto your butts,” Rocket advised.

“Rodent, if you crash this ship…” Loki began.

Rocket said nothing, but his ears flicked back, flat against his skull, and he punched the ignition. The ship’s engines burst out blue flames as they were propelled upward out of Wakanda’s atmosphere.

Bucky gripped his seat involuntarily. _Small, enclosed, tight,_ **_strapped in._ ** Like in that lab. He shook his head, wishing Steve were there. But Steve wasn’t there. He couldn’t be, even though Bucky knew that he wanted to. _He shouldn’t have to always be there,_ he thought, not for the first time. _He shouldn’t need to babysit me._

Romanoff laughed, breaking Bucky from his thoughts. For all her apparent callousness, she did have a nice laugh. “Stark would love this technology,” she mused, running her fingers over the controls. “He’d pay a huge sum for even the blueprints.”

That appeared to get Rocket’s attention. “What kinda sum are we talkin’?”

Their conversation washed over Bucky, a distraction from all his anxieties about this situation.

“And you modified it to go through… what do you call them, jumps?”

“Yeah, nothin’ to it, really.”

“You’re intelligent for a vermin,” Loki observed.

Rocket whipped his head around. “Call me vermin one more time, pal, I’ll shove you outta this pod before you can kiss your fancy ass goodbye,” he snarled.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as the raccoonoid turned around to face Loki. _Metal implants, two. Just below the collar bones._ He winced, remembering the feeling of scalpel against skin, foreign metal inserted roughly into his flesh. As grateful as he was to have regained his memories, there was a lot he wished he could forget.

___

They landed in the shelter of an alleyway, hidden from any prying eyes. The silence that greeted them upon opening the doors was eerie.

 _No city should be this quiet_ , Rocket thought. The only sound was a weird, high-pitched hum that made his teeth ache and his fur stand on end. _That’ll be the portal._

“Okay,” said Romanoff quietly. “We’re going to get as close as we can, scope out the situation. Once we’ve got a clear idea of where Thanos’s troops are, we’ll make a distraction. All clear?”

“Yes, little spider,” Loki said. “We know. We’ve been over this. It’s hardly a difficult concept—or do Midgardian minds need so much repetition to retain simple information?”

Rocket had been about to make an equally snarky comment, but he wasn’t about to agree with Loki. He was starting to seriously dislike the guy. “Hey, shut it, Mr. I’m-a-big-deal-just-because-I’m-a-god,” he snapped. “Widow’s in charge of this mission, we’re taking orders from her.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “I am a prince of Asgard. I am only here because these puny Midgardians begged me for help—”

“Oh, really?” Romanoff folded her arms. “‘Cause the way I heard it, you’re here because all the rest of your bridges got burned.”

The god-guy started looking kind of pissed off. “I can’t believe I’m wasting my time—”

“So let’s stop wasting time,” Bucky interrupted. He didn’t speak loudly, but there was something about him that made everyone else pay attention.

 _It’s like he’s a grenade,_ thought Rocket, _and everybody’s scared someone’s gonna pull the pin._ It didn’t make sense, though. The guy was big, sure, but not as big as Drax, and he didn’t act like he was spoiling for a fight. So far he just seemed kinda quiet—and yet some instinct told Rocket that he was dangerous.

“We all know what our jobs are,” he continued, still in that soft voice that belied the tense posture of his body. “Widow. Orders?”

Romanoff’s mouth quirked upward in the smallest of smiles. “Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll take point. Barnes, take the rear. Loki—you can disguise our presence, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it. Let’s move out.”

 

Bucky followed them, gun at the ready. Always ready. He scanned the area constantly, alert to the slightest noise, the slightest sign of movement through his night vision goggles. Rubble crunched and rolled underfoot as they stalked through the abandoned place, the shadows flickering weirdly in the portal’s purple glow.

“Ay!” Rocket cried.

Bucky glanced down, pointing his gun, only to realize his boot was squishing something soft.

“Watch the tail, asshole!”

“SSSSSHHHH! Quiet, you’ll give away our position!” Romanoff snapped, not even glancing over her shoulder. For one stomach-dropping second they stood still; finally, she signaled them forward.

 _Don’t think about the threats,_ Bucky reminded himself, eyes looking up, down, and side-to-side for any enemies. _Well, think about them, but... just follow Widow’s orders. Follow..._ Bucky halted as Romanoff threw up her hand, signaling them to stop.

There, down in the entrance of an underground roadway tunnel, sat several odd-looking creatures. They were spindly, but heavily armored.

“Awe, damn,” Rocket muttered, “They got Kree armor.”

“Care to elaborate?” asked Romanoff.

“It means they’re gonna be harder to take out than we initially thought.”

“Bullet-proof?”

“At a distance, anyway,” Rocket told her. “Knives, though… those get through.”

Romanoff shook out her shoulders, taking a deep breath in preparation for the fight. “Well, then. Close quarters, it is. Shall we?”

 

Loki grinned, stepping forward with the humans, and Rocket swallowed his fear, covering it expertly with his own snarl of a challenge. He ran between Bucky and Romanoff, clearly the ones who would offer the most protection.

At close quarters, guns were practically useless anyway. Instead, they threw themselves into the fight, kicking, punching, and stabbing as more attackers came streaming in. Rocket ended up next to Bucky, using the guy’s height as a distraction while he took out the aliens who didn’t think to look down. It was a lot like fighting with Drax, except that Bucky didn’t laugh and yell challenges at his opponents, or take risks. He was brutally efficient, taking out his opponents with knives to the gut or eye, or punches that sent them flying.

Rocket stabbed another guy in the thigh, then leapt aside as Bucky smashed his face in with a single swing of his fist. They finished off another couple in similar fashion, and then, suddenly, all was quiet.

Looking around, Rocket saw that the ground littered with corpses. The other team members straightened from their own fighting stances, looking around cautiously. Romanoff glanced at Bucky.

“Hey Barnes, you hear anything?”

Bucky appeared to listen intently for a moment, then shook his head. “No hostiles in the immediate vicinity.”

“Good.” She nodded to the rest of them. “Good work, team. Let’s keep going.”

As they fell in behind her, Rocket noticed that Bucky’s gloves had come off, or been torn off during the fight. Where his left hand should be, there was only gleaming metal.

 _Huh._ He shivered, memories of such enhancements flashing through his mind. Watching that arm swing, he was hyperaware of the cybernetics in his own back. _That job’s precise... beautiful even… from an engineering standpoint. But there’s no flarking way he’d have been able to make that himself._ The raccoonoid eyed it warily as they continued onward, gaze traveling up from the hand to the elbow. _Wonder if it’s an entire arm. Modified. Enhanced. Engineered._

As though sensing his scrutiny, Bucky turned to look at him. “What?”

“Your hand.” Rocket shrugged, whispering as they headed into the underpass. “That’s top-grade shit, that is. Must be worth over a million units.”  He was practiced at brushing things off casually. But in his mind, the enhanced raccoon couldn’t help but wonder if this strange human had gone through a similar torture to what he had suffered. _It wasn’t possible, was it?_

 

Bucky frowned, unsure of how to respond. But he knew how the Winter Soldier would. _He’d  ring that furry little neck. Or shoot him down. That’s all it would take. One bullet, anywhere on his body. It wouldn’t be hard at all. Like snapping a toothpick. Stop it. STOP IT._ He tried to force the thoughts away from his mind. _Stop coming up with ways to kill him.  How’d the tiny little creature even manage to make it this far?_

“Barnes!” Romanoff snapped.

He looked up as she motioned for him to get down. Rocket and Loki were already crouching.

“That’s a Radatet bomb, right there,” the raccoonoid whispered, pointing at the strange, black, circular object bolted to the wall near the end of the tunnel . “We can’t get past it; it senses motion and thermal radiation.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Loki hissed.

Bucky examined the bomb as best he could from this distance, trying to decipher it. _There had to be some way…_

Loki leaned forward, his fingertips glowing with an eerie green light.

“NO!” Romanoff shouted, but too late—Loki made a throwing motion, shooting a beam of energy at the thing.

Bucky was moving before he so much as thought about it, grabbing the nearest person (Rocket), and flinging them both toward the closest maintenance alcove. The thing detonated as he ran, and he rolled forward, the raccoonoid still caught up in his arms, as the blast hit. In the minimal shelter of the alcove, he crouched for cover, using his back and left arm like a shield against the flying debris.

The roar of the explosion and rumble of falling masonry blocked out all other sound, dust exploding everywhere in a haze of cloudy smoke. Something hit Bucky in the back, slamming him against the wall of the alcove; Rocket made a whimpering sound, the bolts in his back digging painfully into Bucky’s sternum.

Then, above the noise, there was a loud groan, then a crack, and suddenly the ground underneath them gave way. They plummeted down into darkness, and Bucky kept just enough control to roll when he hit, somewhat mitigating the impact of his fall.

It still hurt like hell.

Above them, around them, debris was still falling, and Bucky rolled a bit further, out of the way, and curled into a ball, waiting for it to end. At last, the noise subsided; in its absence, everything was strangely muffled, save for the ringing in his ears. His muscles felt like they were on fire, and he was pretty sure he’d cracked a rib—unpleasant, certainly, but far from the worst injuries he’d sustained on a mission.

Painfully, he sat up, taking in his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see—the rubble above him was blocking out most of the light, and the dust in the air was thick enough to obscure everything else. If it wasn’t for his mask, he was pretty sure he’d be choking right now.

A cough from nearby had him reaching for his Glock, scrambling to his feet with far less grace than he normally used. Before he could aim at anything, however, Rocket emerged from the gloom, the fur on his arms smoking.

“You—” Rocket coughed again, stopped, and pulled something over his face— some type of gas mask, Bucky realized after a second, as Rocket took a deep, rattling breath and tried again.

“You alright there, pal?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, a little dazed. “Yeah, I’m… what about you?”

The raccoonoid shrugged, a little stiffly. “Nothin’ a soak in the jacuzzi won’t fix.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “You have a jacuzzi?”

“Well, nothin’ wrong with wishing.”

“Uh huh.” Despite the urgency of their situation, Bucky couldn’t help smiling a little. It was the same kind of thing one of the Howlies might say— humor to lighten a dark situation, because if you thought too much about what was going on, you might just give up in despair. He’d done the same thing, once; nowadays, he mostly just tried to survive.

“You still got a com?” he asked, peering up at the hole they’d fallen through. It wasn’t much of a hole anymore— blocked by giant pieces of concrete and rebar, it would be difficult even for him to get out that way.

Rocket shook his head. “Musta lost it on the way down.”

“Okay. I’m gonna see if the others are… what happened to the others.” He really hoped they survived, because if they didn’t, Steve would go all sad and stoic and probably charge a machine-gun nest to relieve his feelings, and Bucky just could not deal with that right now. Also, he liked Romanoff—or at least, he respected her, which was close to the same thing.

“Do you think they’re—I mean, they were closer to the blast,” said Rocket, crossing his arms. “They might not—”

“I know,” Bucky snapped. He didn’t believe in God, not anymore, but he couldn’t help praying—or maybe just wishing really, really hard—anyway. _Please, please let them be okay. Please let them be alive._

He took a deep breath, air acrid in his lungs, and turned on his com.

A string of Russian invectives met his ears, and he sighed in relief. Romanoff, at least, was alive.

_“You mother-fucking son of a bitch, you could have gotten us killed! What the hell were you—”_

“Romanoff?”

“Barnes,” she said immediately, breaking off mid-sentence. “Where are you? What’s your status?”

“Functional,” he said automatically. “No immediate maintenance required,” and then flinched. “I’m alright,” he corrected himself. “Rocket’s okay, too. We’re—under the tunnel, I think. What about you?”

“Scrapes and bruises, nothing major,” she said. “Loki did some weird god-thing and got us out of the blast zone. We’re… outside the tunnel. Or, where it used to be, anyway. Around five hundred meters southwest. Can you meet us there?”

“Negative,” said Bucky. He paced the tunnel as he talked, peering at their surroundings. “We’re blocked in, here. It’s gonna take some digging to get out.”

“You need rescue?”

“Nah. We can—I think this is a service tunnel, we should be able to get out. It’s just gonna take awhile.” He glanced at Rocket. “The two of you should get started on the mission. We’ll come find you once we get out of this mess.”

“Are you sure?”

“That okay?” he asked Rocket.

“Sure.”

“Yeah, we’re sure.”

“Alright, then.” She took a breath, clearly audible over the com. “We’ll meet you when you get out. And, Barnes?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get yourself killed. I can’t face Cap’s disappointed face if I come back without you.”

“Noted,” he said dryly. “I’ll try to keep myself in one piece.”

“Do that. Over and out.”

“Over and out,” he repeated, and switched off his mic. “Well,” he said to Rocket, “I guess we’re on our own.”

“Seems so.” The raccoonoid shrugged, then bent to examine the heaps of debris all around them. “If I had my stuff I could dig us outta here no problem, but I left all that junk on the ship.”

Bucky pushed experimentally at a concrete slab, noticing as he did so that his sleeve had been completely torn away in the blast, leaving the metal arm exposed. The servos made a loud grinding sound in protest, and he winced. Clearly the fall hadn’t done it any favors.

Rocket’s head jerked upward at the sound. “Hey!”

“What?” Bucky asked warily. The last thing he needed was for this furry little alien to make a big fuss about his arm.

From his belt, Rocket pulled a small vial and tossed it to him. “You’re no good with a gimpy limb. That stuff is Havarax ointment, works wonders. Illegal in seven quadrants, but it does the trick.”

“Huh.” Bucky looked down skeptically at the phial in his hand, some unknown alien scribble dotting the crumpled label, then turned to watch the creature assess the situation, his tail flicking back and forth as he walked on two legs.  

“Five-hundred meters southwest.” Rocket ruminated on what he’d overheard. “We didn’t fall straight down—” pointing upward. “We must’ve been pushed a ways from the original blast on a diagonal… so depending on where Romanoff and bug-helmet guy ended up, we could be a good ways away.”

“I didn’t think to fall a certain way,” Bucky bit back. “I was too busy making sure you didn’t get crushed.”

“Yeah, and then you _dropped_ me!”

“The entire floor fell out from under me!”

“Tsch,” Rocket’s tail flicked away the statement as if it made little difference. “Way I see it, we can either try to dig directly up and try to find them above the surface, or we can wander around down here and hope we come up near enough to wherever they ended up.”

Bucky flexed the fingers of his left hand, trying to push away his annoyance and concentrate.

“That metal thing don’t got a navigation system on it, does it?” Rocket pointed to his arm.

“Nope.” Bucky found himself smiling again. “Does yours?”

Rocket’s ears flicked back in his mask, the little ear flaps going down. Under lighter circumstances, Bucky may have found it sort of cute, in the way of a little dog that gets pissed when its owner puts a costume on it.

“No,” he grunted, turning away.

Bucky nodded. _So it’s true. Those metal bolts… sounds like he didn’t ask for them, any more than I did._ He uncapped the ointment and sniffed, wincing. “Smells like road-kill.”

Rocket laughed. “Yeah, but it works.”

Bucky pumped a dab onto his hand, the off-white viscous glob making his stomach turn even as he wiped it on. Immediately, he felt a cool rush flow through his hardware, relaxing the kinks it had suffered on the fall down.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, throwing it back to Rocket.

The raccoonoid looked at him. “I think I got a plan if we decide to climb out right here, but uhhh… I’m gonna need that arm.” He pointed at Bucky’s metal limb. "It comes off, right? If not, I bet I can fix that."

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, trying to hide the way his heartbeat had suddenly kicked up at the idea, at the memories. _Repulsors fired, and he threw up his arm, trying to shield himself; blinding, searing pain, sparking through his shoulder and straight into his spine; no arm, no weapons, Stark advancing in the metal suit, Steve in harm's way, while he lay there helpless, no way to fight..._ His mouth tasted bitter, coppery, and he realized he was biting his lip, hands clenched at his sides.

 

For his part, Rocket’s stomach coiled, recognizing that look. It was the “bad memories coming back, but you’re trying to hide it” look.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he tried to recover lamely. “And I don’t actually need your arm. It’s just a joke.”

“It’s not funny.” Bucky glared at him.

“Yeah Star-Dork doesn’t think so either.” Rocket paused. “Seriously, though. What is up with the arm? How did you even get that?"

Bucky shrugged, clearly trying to seem casual, but Rocket could hear his heart racing. "Buncha evil fuckers captured me, decided to turn me into a killing machine." The servos on his arm shifted like the scales of an angry snake. "I wasn't much good to them with just one arm, so they made me a new one."

Rocket tilted his head. “Nice workmanship, though.”

“Yeah, well.” He glanced down at his arm, brushing the fingers of his other hand against it. “This ain’t the one they made. T’Challa’s people gave me a new one, after—look, why the hell are we talking about this? You got a plan to get out of here?”

Rocket opened his mouth, ready with a smart remark, but the guy was all tense, his hands all clenched like he was ready for a fight. It wasn’t often he decided to go with tact, but at the moment… well. There was something familiar in the way Bucky held himself, like he’d been kicked around so much he was just waiting for someone else to step up and have a go at him. Rocket knew what it was like, to have someone else’s fingerprints all over your body, permanent reminders that no matter what you did, you’d never escape what was done to you, what you’d become. So maybe, just maybe, he could scrape up a little empathy. Bucky sure as hell wouldn’t know the difference.

“Yeah, I got a plan,” he said instead, thinking better of it. “Walk down this tunnel, see where it goes… and shoot anything that moves.”

It was hard to tell Bucky’s expression behind the mask, but his posture relaxed, his voice taking on a confident, almost cocky tone, almost as though a whole new person was breaking through. “Well, it’s simple, I gotta give you that. You got anything to shoot with? ‘Cause I lost my rifle saving your sorry ass, all I got left is a coupla pistols.”

“Uh, yeah.” He fumbled a little, confused by the sudden alteration in Bucky’s manner. “I still got my XR-16 Xandarian Rifle.”

“Ammo?”

“About a hundred rounds.”

“Okay, I got… fifty pistol rounds.” Bucky drew a pistol, flicking off the safety. “Guess we’ll have to pick our shots. Let’s head out.” Without waiting for Rocket’s reply, he stepped forward, down through the dark.

__

Rocket squinted as he walked, allowing Bucky to lead the way through the tunnel. Everything inside him made him want to jump up on the humie’s shoulder. _A safe spot, perched._ He pushed the instincts to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on the dim black ahead, rifle poised at the ready.

He watched the metal arm. _Buncha evil fuckers captured me and decided to turn me into a killing machine._ So many questions. _Was there a chance that this human knew what he himself had gone through?_ Rocket longed to ask him, but bit his tongue.   _Don’t go there. Don’t you dare go there, you pathetic piece of pelt!_

 _“You play like you’re the meanest and the hardest, but really you’re the most scared of all.”_ Yondu’s words echoed in his mind to this day. _He was right. So, so right._ But maybe he wasn’t the only one for whom it was true.   _No!_  He chastised himself as they continued, he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ open up like that. He swallowed hard. Loneliness curled in the pit of his stomach.

Bucky stopped, holding up his fist.

“What?” Rocket barked, masking his inner emotions.

“I heard something.” Bucky crouched, peering through the shadows.

“What?”

 

“Shut it,” Bucky hissed, aiming at the roof of the tunnel. For once, the raccoonoid obeyed. They crouched in silence, waiting. Bucky’s own breath caught as a large hissing creature slithered down from the wall of the tunnel. Leaping forward, he shot three times and rolled as it was about to land on him, large sinuous body still slithering even as he turned to see its bullet-ridden form. _What the hell?_

“The flark is that?!” Rocket cried.

“I was about to ask you,” Bucky admitted.

“What, you think just cuz I ain’t from here means I know every wacked-out creature there is?!”

Bucky turned back to the reptilian thing. Its tail was still twitching. He carefully nudged it with the butt of his pistol once it had stopped moving. “Must’ve come through one of the portals. Be on your guard, there could be more.”

Rocket nodded, looking through the scope of his own weapon.

Bucky moved forward, reloading as he went. The tunnel walls curved slightly, dark mold and runny streams of minerals making brown and brass-colored muck that seeped out from the cracks. Another scurrying sound.

BAM! Rocket fired.

Bucky whirled, then shook his head. “That’s just a rat.”

Rocket looked at the dead thing skeptically. “It’s pretty big.”

“Maybe you’re just small.”

Rocket’s red eyes narrowed, aiming his gun ahead, just past Bucky. “Yeah, well, my gun ain’t, so I suggest you keep walkin’!”

Bucky shook his head, laughing as he crept forward. It was an empty threat if he ever heard one. They navigated the tunnel with acute wariness; Bucky glanced above, around and even below them, as he’d been trained. But through the length they walked, the only sounds were rats.

“Exactly how long are these tunnels, humie? You got any idea where the hell we even are?” Rocket demanded, clearly impatient after a while of sneaking about and false alarms.

“Hey, I told you I don’t have a navigation system, here,” said Bucky. “You got a better idea, be my guest.”

Rocket huffed, and then… huffed again. He stopped, sniffing.

“You got a cold, or something?” Bucky asked.

“No, there’s… there’s an air current. An opening, somewhere.”

Bucky looked around, then up, searching for a break in the tunnel walls. “There!” He pointed upward, where a patch of stars was just visible through what he suspected was a manhole. “We can get through up there.”

“How the hell are we supposed to get up there?” Rocket demanded, craning to look upward.

“I thought you had a plan.”

“I told you it was a joke!” Rocket cried, looking up at the manhole. “Unless that Wakandan arm thing can scale tunnel walls, I’m out of ideas.”

“You’ve broken out of twenty-four prisons! Or was that another joke?”

Rocket lifted his gun to his shoulder. “No, it ain’t a joke! But this ain’t a prison. It’s a tunnel. Do you see any security cams I can override, any weapons? No! All that’s down here is rats, and water and mold and that weird space lizard!”

Bucky waved his hands, exasperated. “Okay, keep your shirt on, Christ. We’ll think of something.” He peered upward, ignoring Rocket’s muttering.

“Okay,” he said eventually. “I got an idea, but… you’re probably not gonna like it.”

Rocket’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

He took a breath. “Well, it looks like it’s about twenty feet up, and you’re pretty small, so… um… I could throw you.”

There was a moment of silence.

“ _Throw_ me?” said Rocket incredulously. “Are you outta your _mind_?”

“Not unlikely,” he answered. “But honestly, I think it’s our best shot. Once you’re up there, you can tie a cable to something and throw it down for me to climb up.”

“We don’t have a rope,” Rocket pointed out.

“Yeah, we do.” Bucky unclipped a spool of cable from his belt. “We can use this.”

“That little thread ain’t gonna hold your weight, pal.”

“It’s vibranium, I could dangle a struggling rhinoceros off the Brooklyn Bridge and it’d be fine,” says Bucky impatiently. “Come on, we gonna do this or not?”

Rocket shook his head. “I only understood about half of what you just said,” he grumbled. “Anyway, I’m still stuck on the part where you _throw me into the ceiling_. I don’t wanna end up as a buncha mush on the roof of this tunnel.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, invisible under his goggles. “I’m not gonna throw you into the ceiling, I’m gonna throw you through the _hole_ in the ceiling. I’ve got good aim, I’m not gonna miss.”

The raccoon looked at him for a few seconds, considering, before he said, “Throw somethin’ else through, first, and if you make it I’ll go.”

It was a pretty reasonable request, actually, so Bucky shrugged and headed over to the wall. He punched the concrete in a couple of places, ripping out a large chunk. Behind him, Rocket swore in startlement; he ignored him and headed to the space under the hole. He took a second to judge the angle, then threw, straight through the center of the opening. There was a thump as the projectile landed on the ground above.

He turned to Rocket, dusting his hands. “There. Now do you believe me?”

When Rocket spoke, his voice sounded a little funny, like he maybe got some grit in his throat. “Okay, humie. I guess we may as well give this crazy plan of yours a try.”

Bucky smiled to himself. _Finally._ He hoisted Rocket up, grunting as the raccoonoid squirmed in his hold.

 

 _Breathe, just breathe, they aren’t going to take you apart again,_ Rocket reprimanded himself, clenching his teeth as Bucky’s arms lifted him up. Being held like this, suspended, was different from being up on Groot’s shoulders. Everything in his mind yelled at him to bite Bucky’s hand. _They held him up like this to transfer him from his cage to the gurney cart. They held him like this to transfer him from the gurney cart to the table. The table with the knives and…_

 

“Ready?” Bucky asked. He could feel the creature’s body tense as it fought the urge to thrash. _He knows what it’s like to be restrained. Best I can do is make it quick._

Rocket swallowed. “As I’ll ever be...Wait!”

“What?” Bucky demanded, exasperated.

“....don’t tell Quill.”

“Alright I won’t,” he promised. “Okay 1….2…” Bucky threw, having already measured the distance. He bit back a laugh at Rocket’s cursing as he was propelled upward, the end of his tail disappearing through the top of the manhole.

“Got it?” Bucky hollered upward.

“I should flarking leave you down there!” Rocket answered, looking down on him.

“Do you have the cable?” The creature said nothing, but the cable fell down, and Bucky grabbed it, hoisting himself up.

“Thanks,” he said, grabbing the small paw Rocket offered. Bucky glanced around. W _indows shattered, street covered with debris. No sign of Romanoff or Loki. None of Thanos’s goons, either._

 _“_ This cable thing is great,” Rocket commented, wrapping it up. “Wakanda, man, wouldn’t be a bad spot to retire.”

Bucky pulled off his mask, taking a deep breath of cool night air. In his mind, he pictured the towering waterfalls and miles of open grassland, the beauty of all that vibranium, not only in weapons but transportation, technology, everything. “No, it wouldn’t.”

There was a click as Rocket removed his own mask. “I don’t see the others anywhere.”

“No.” Bucky glanced around, uncomfortable in the open. “Let’s get behind something, then I’ll call Romanoff.”

 

“Can you see a water tower from where you are?” Romanoff asked over the com. “It’s got murals of butterflies on it and shit?”

Bucky scanned the horizon. “Yeah—about a mile east of us, looks like.”

“We’ll meet you by that.”

“Roger.” He flipped off his mic with a sigh. “Okay, we’ve got a rendezvous point.”

Rocket hefted his gun. “Well, then, let’s go.”

They headed out into the night, slinking between the shadows like ghosts. There was something intrinsically familiar about this, watching someone else’s back in an occupied city. Bucky half expected Falsworth to materialize around the corner, signaling the all-clear, or to hear Jones and Dernier whispering in French, probably working out some crazy new way to blow something up.

Instead, gunfire erupted from up ahead, sending up a cloud of debris and shattering the glass of the building next to them. He whipped around towards the noise, raising his pistol as he searched for the shooter. _There._ A squat, marshmallow-like creature perched on the balcony of a ruined apartment building, directly across the square from them He fired, once, twice. _Target down._

His mind snapped into computer-mode, running through the litany. _Second enemy, at three o’clock._ Three shots in quick succession, chest, head, neck. The alien went down. The noise attracted others, and Bucky took out three more popping out from a nearby alley.

 _Footsteps, heavily armored foe._ Bucky twisted, reaching out for the alien who charged him, and kneed it in the stomach, gripped its arm and flipped it onto its back on the ground. Its cry was lost to the cracking sound of broken bones as he crushed its windpipe beneath his heel.

 

Rocket looked on as Bucky seemed to dance seamlessly, bringing down each alien who attacked. He picked one up and threw it into another, then shot them both as he ducked another alien. At some point, he’d drawn a knife with a twelve-inch blade, which he used to run another alien through the rib-cage. In a bloody dance of metal and fire he twisted, punched, kicked, jumped, and shot.

He was moving too quickly for Rocket to shoot without risking hitting him by accident, and the racoonoid found himself just watching as he mowed their attackers down. He fought the way Gamora and Nebula did, with an absolute ruthlessness and economy of movement—but they were more than half cyborg, created by Thanos for murder. Bucky was just human… wasn’t he?

Finally, Bucky slammed the last of the aliens to the ground, grunting as he tugged his knife free of the hole he’d created in its chest.

“What’d they _do_ to you?” Rocket whispered, looking around, bewildered, at the fifteen aliens who lay strewn like fields after a storm. _No normal human should be able to fight like that..._ he thought, turning around to examine the carnage.

Bucky glanced at him, then frowned, moving closer. He raised a hand, as though to touch Rocket’s collarbone, where the metal implants were visible above the collar of his shirt. For a long moment, the two of them just stood there, staring at each other. Then Bucky’s hand dropped, and he took a breath.

“Same sorta things they did to you.”

Rocket felt a little chill raise the fur along his spine. “Fuckin’ scientists,” he muttered. “Buncha nutcases, the lot of ‘em.”

Bucky bent to pick up an alien rifle, checking the magazine for ammo with practiced efficiency. “Yeah, give a guy a white coat and a couple prisoners and all of a sudden he thinks he’s God,” he said.

Rocket snorted, hand going to his own gun. “Doesn’t make em’ immune to bullets, though.”

A sharp grin stretched Bucky’s lips. “No, it doesn’t.”  

 

They walked together down the street, Bucky’s large strides stepping over debris where Rocket had to scramble. He resisted the urge to smile at the sight of the small creature brandishing a gun nearly as big as himself as he hopped over the rubble strewn across their path.

Movement caught his eye, and he raised the alien rifle without thinking, firing up at the empty window of an adjacent building. The sniper returned fire, and Bucky ducked behind a statue, using the figure’s sweeping robes as cover.

BANG! BANG!

Bucky fired several more rounds, unable to get a good shot at the sniper. More gunfire erupted around them, and he turned side-on, minimizing the amount of target he presented. Above, the alien sniper moved, a head coming into view for a split second, and Bucky pulled the trigger.

BANG, the alien went down, and Bucky lowered his rifle.

 _BANG, BANG...BANG_. He whirled around as the noise continued, just in time to see one of their attackers go down in a spray of greenish blood. Empty cartridges littered his feet, but the shots kept coming. The last alien hit the ground, and he looked up, wild-eyed, and realized the raccoon had scrambled onto his shoulder and continued firing.

“Thanks,” Bucky managed, still perplexed. He hefted the Rocket’s weight on his shoulder; it wasn’t much, barely the weight of an additional gun.

“Yeah, no problem.” he murmured, sounding almost… embarrassed. He made as if to clamber down again, but Bucky put up a hand to stop him.

“Why don’t you stay up there?”

Predictably, Rocket bristled. “I don’t need a piggyback ride, humie, I’m not your pet parrot.”

Bucky tilted his head so he could meet his eyes. “I ain’t giving out free rides, pal. I could use you watching my six, and it’s a hell of a lot easier if you can just face backwards.”

For a long moment, Rocket just stared at him, expression unreadable on his strange features. Then, “Alright,” he said. “I got your back.”

Bucky knew that tone. “What?”

“Nothing! It’s...just that I...I ain’t never fought with anyone like that since…Groot...”

“The angsty tree teen?”  Bucky asked, peering around to make sure the coast was clear.

Rocket’s ears flattened. “No.”

“…Okay.” Bucky knew all about sore subjects. He wasn’t about to push on this one. He started forward again, scanning through broken doors and shattered windows as he went.

“Not the one you met, anyways….” Rocket whispered.

Bucky glanced up at him, surprised at the continuation. “Who was he, then?”  

Rocket thought for a long time, then said, with more gentleness then Bucky had imagined possible from the scrappy little creature, “Your Steve. My version of him, anyways.”

Bucky stopped walking, floored. “My Steve?”

“I saw you guys making gooey eyes at each other on the _Milano._ ”

He started walking again, feeling mildly horrified. “You and a… tree… creature? Is that—how does that _work_?”

“Eew! Not like that, you creep!”

“You said he was like your version of Steve!”

“I meant the—the best friends forever part, not… ugh… gross…”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” said Bucky, feeling relieved. There were some things in this brave new world that he just didn’t want to think about. He eased himself around the corner of a building, compensating for the slight weight on his shoulder. “So…” he said, more gently, “what happened?”

Rocket sighed, rubbing his paws over his muzzle and then the fur between his ears in a truly raccoon gesture. “He’s… dead. Sacrificed himself to save us on the battle of Xandar,” he said.  “He died shielding us from the impact.”

Bucky listened, trying to push the impossibilities and doubts from his mind. Trying to stop questioning how absurd this all was. “Sounds like something Steve would do,” he muttered. _Selfless Steve Rogers._

A crater had been blasted in the middle of the street, and he edged around it, not wanting to fall again. The desolation was getting to him; Wakandan cities were normally so beautiful, so full of life, and this felt terribly wrong. _Like Italy._

“Damn bleedin’ hearts,” Rocket said, without much vitriol attached.

Bucky could only nod. The water tower drew slowly closer as he walked, its lights still gleaming in the strange purplish dark.

“This Groot, you two were partners?” he finally inquired. “Where did you meet? The Hundred Acre Wood, with all the other woodland creatures?”

“Very funny,” Rocket answered dryly. “We broke outta prison together. It wasn’t long after I escaped...escaped _them_.”

Bucky could feel the creature’s grip tighten on his shoulder and the top of his head, tense like a coiled spring ready to go off.

 _What would I do if Steve died…?_ He shuddered to even think of it. He knew he ought to say something, but didn’t know what. _I used to be good at this. Or maybe I was only ever good at it with Steve._ He thought about that, for a moment, trying to recall. He remembered, now, the way Steve sometimes looked at him during the War— hopeful and kind of sad, like a kicked puppy. He hadn’t known how to handle it— everything had seemed too big, too raw, too out of control, and it had taken all his self-control not to throw down his gun and run away screaming. _Follow Captain America into the jaws of death_. Well, he’d done that, alright.  

“Steve broke me out of a Nazi prison camp,” he found himself saying. “During the War. Well, I guess that wouldn’t mean nothing to you, but— they were—well, they were just about as evil as you can get. And the place I was at, they were—doing experiments. I was one of ‘em.” He kicked a rock in front of him, watched it bounce along the ground. “Little idiot got himself turned into a superhero, took on the whole damned compound all on his lonesome, trying to find me. Nearly got himself killed.”

“But he found you?” Rocket sounded… anxious, almost, as though reassuring himself. “You got out.”

Bucky peered around the corner of a warehouse, searching for signs of movement. He didn’t see any. “Yeah, I got out. And then they fucking took me right back again.” He took a shuddering breath, not sure why he was explaining this to this odd, violent little alien. Somehow, though, now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop. “I—I thought there couldn’t be—worse than what they’d already done— I thought, the stuff they did to my— to my body, I could… I could take it, if I had to. But they took my brain, and they— they just yanked everything out, took away—everything that was _me_ , filled it up with their evil bullshit. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

“They gave me sentience,” Rocket whispered, so low that Bucky could hardly hear him, close as they were. “I never asked for it. I don’t even know what I was before I became what they made me. Love, friendship, family, I never knew what those things were.” He shifted, claws digging into Bucky’s shoulder. “They forced sentience on me, _but they took yours away,_ _didn’t they?_ Or they tried.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Shit, I can't imagine what’s worse.”

Bucky nodded, trying hard to stifle his shaking. _It’s true,_ he thought. He clenched his fists to try and keep the memories at bay.

“They made you do things, didn’t they? Terrible things.” Rocket said, hushed.

The only sound between them was the crunch of broken pavement beneath Bucky’s boots. “Yes,” he whispered, trying to shut out the memories.

Rocket looked away, to the point where Bucky wasn’t sure if he was actually speaking to him.  “But at that point you were already so fucked up you didn’t even question if it was right or wrong, huh?” His tail flicked, brushing across Bucky’s face. “Sometimes you don’t even question it, now. And that Steve guy, your boyfriend or whatever, you’re so worried that someday you’re going to revert back into what they tried to make you and you’ll go ape-shit and kill him, ain’t that right? Even if it’s just for a second…...a  second’s all it takes.”

He was shaking now, his grip on the back of Bucky’s head borderline painful. “That’s what it was. Just a second. Just a split second, I decided to crash my ship into the Dark Aster, and send it plummeting down.” _Aggression, impulsiveness, total lack of self-preservation or consideration of consequences…. traits those scientists had conditioned him into having._ “…I destroyed our only means of escape. Wasn’t thinking...so Groot he, he grew around us and…” He sniffed. “Well, there wasn’t much left of him after the fall.”

“A second is all it takes…”

Bucky was pretty sure the creature was crying, at this point, and he couldn’t blame him. How many times had he seen Steve throw himself into danger on his behalf? Or, God, how many times had he nearly killed Steve as the Winter Soldier? _Poor little guy. Universe sure dealt him a bum hand, just like it did me._

“I...I’m sorry,” he managed. “About your friend.”

“It’s not _your_ fault.” Rocket mumbled.

“Hey! Listen to me.” Bucky took a deep breath. _Hope they found a cure for rabies by now_ , he couldn’t help thinking, and reached up to pat Rocket clumsily on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault, okay? If I blamed myself for every death I inadvertently caused, I’d be far less sane then I am now—and I’m barely sane as it is.”

He felt the raccoonoid go rigid at being touched, but then he relaxed, allowing the contact for a few seconds before shrugging Bucky’s grip off of him.

 _BANG!_ Bucky instantly snapped back to reality as dust from the misshot of a gun grazed his boots. Rocket hoisted his own gun with one arm, still perched on Bucky’s shoulder with the other. “Up there!”

The ex-Winter Soldier pointed his own gun, looking through the scope. _There, in the sixth story window._ Another one of those alien-like creatures, armored with Thano’s telltale garb. Bucky fired. _Quick! Shoot them before they shoot you._ He fired, once, twice, ignoring Rocket, who was struggling to keep his balance.

 _Bang! Bang!_ Concrete flew up all around them; the aliens had some kind of mortar. _Shit! Too much firepower!_ Cursing once more, Bucky ran, ducking and weaving as shells exploded around them, Rocket clinging desperately to his neck. With a burst of speed, he ducked down a narrow alleyway to their left, chest heaving as he slid down the wall to a sitting position.

“What the f—flark?!” Rocket cursed, all his fur standing up.

“Shh! Just wait a sec!” Bucky waited. _Breathe. Just breathe. Wait._ After a few precious moments, he lifted his gun, pointing it around the corner and slowly poking his head out, scanning the street outside for movement. It was deserted now, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

As if on cue, Bucky started at the sound of explosive gunfire behind him.

“AAAAAHHHH!!!” Rocket’s screaming laughter over the rattle of machine guns strangely assured Bucky, sending the thrill of the fight through his veins as he ran forward once more.

They weaved in and out of the buildings, around the corner, and he skidded to a halt. _Shit!_

He was staring down the barrel of a mounted gun. Behind it, one of Thanos’s goons grinned yellow teeth. Bucky pulled the trigger. _Click._

 _Shit! No more ammo_. His stomach tensed, Steve’s image flashing across his mind as he dropped the rifle and drew a pistol.

In the next second, Rocket launched himself from his shoulder. The raccoonoid landed squarely on the alien’s face, biting, scratching and punching. Bucky ducked just in time as the alien was knocked sideways, firing off the weapon. It pulled a knife from its belt, frantically jabbing at Rocket, who jumped off him and picked up his abandoned gun.

“Rocket!” he shouted, but the little creature shot the alien once, twice, three times, four, over and over until long after it had collapsed, lifeless.

“What?” Rocket turned to him, blood dripping from his arm as he hefted the weapon that was twice his size over his shoulder. “I said I got your back.”

 _You just shot that thing into oblivion, and we need to conserve ammo._ “You’re bleeding,” Bucky said, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor. He didn’t really feel like having an argument about unnecessary force just now—especially as it would be highly hypocritical.

The raccoonoid glanced at his cut. “Just a graze, humie. I’ve had worse, and so have you.”

Bucky nodded, conceding. “Glad you’re on my side,” he said, grinning. “Remind me never to piss you off. You know, you’re quite a force to be reckoned with, for a raccoon.”

He shifted his gaze to the empty buildings around them, on the alert once more. What he didn’t see was Rocket, who had climbed onto his shoulder again. His eyes were bright, chest thrust out in pride, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

__

“Widow?” Rocket whispered, leaning forward on Bucky’s shoulder and into the shattered first-story window of an apartment building a little while later. “Yo! Fancy boy with the bug hat? You there?!”

Bucky snickered. “Shhh! We’re not there yet.”

After waiting a moment in silence, they continued onward. Stepping down off the cracked stairs, Bucky checked his nine and three directions, _all clear._

“You seem pretty calm about our situation here, bald-body,” Rocket commented, picking at the small wound in his side.

Bucky shrugged. “Not like I haven’t seen worse.”

 _Right. Torture._ “How long did they have you, anyway? Those Nazi people.”

“HYDRA,” said Bucky absently. “They changed the name. About… seventy years. Give or take.”

“Seventy _years_?”

Bucky turned another corner, sliding against the cracked concrete and crouching between the traffic barriers, now deserted. “I was on ice for a lot of it. Cryogenically frozen. But… yeah.”

Rocket didn’t know a whole lot about humans, but he was pretty sure that was most of a human lifespan. “Flark,” he breathed. “You really did lose everything. Family… friends… hell, I bet you were a standup guy before they did what they did. Going off and fightin’ in that war.”

“Mmm,” Bucky muttered, ducking under a partially-collapsed archway. 

“They cut into you and tore you apart. So bad that your body was no longer yours. It belonged to them. You belonged to them. You were a tool, a plaything. That arm—” Rocket gestured to the metal limb— “That’s a Wakandan upgrade. But those Nazi psychos must’ve given you another one.”

Bucky glanced at the metal arm.

“That’s not the only thing they did to you, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.” He suddenly fired at an alien who jumped at them down from the rafters. It fell dead before them, and Bucky stepped over it, apparently unfazed. “I told you they messed a lot of shit up, alright, can we not go down that road again?”

But Rocket wouldn’t be deterred. “It’s what’s in the inside that’s really fucked. They yanked everything out, like you said.”

Bucky walked forward, checking his gun as the rounded another deserted street.

“They messed up your mind…...your heart.” Rocket’s voice choked, lost in his own memories of Halfworld.

Bucky sighed, stopping for a moment to lean against a wall. “Everything that was me, remember? I meant it when I said _everything_.”

In Rocket's head, bright lights glared. _Steel tables, blades, the smell of blood and fear…_ He swallowed, hardly aware that he was speaking aloud. “Cut into pieces with their scalpels and those machines… That’s what they wanted right? A machine. That’s what they tried to turn you into.”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, taking a deep breath, “they tried.” He glanced up, smirking. “Look at us now, though. Sure, we’re a few potatoes short of a bushel, but… they’re dead. We’re not. So from where I’m standing, looks like we won, huh?”

Rocket grinned back, a surge of warmth filling his chest. _Take that, fuckers. After all that, we’re alive._

“What about you? You were just an innocent… creature… and they—they tortured you…”

Rocket stared incredulously at the only person in this whole damn galaxy who perhaps understood, _truly_ understood what he’d been through. He shook his head. _Out of all the creatures in the damn galaxy. Not even Yondu, not even Groot, fully knew what this humie knows. What a world._

“So you don’t remember anything at all?” Bucky asked, unable to silence his curiosity.

“Just smells.” Rocket said. “Trees, dirt mostly and other things...fur, I think. Musk.” He shook his head, snapping out of it. “Guess that’s why I don’t mind having Groot around. He smells like a tree.”

 _Don’t mind having Groot around._ Bucky almost snorted. _That’s an understatement if I ever heard one._ He recalled the raccoons that rummaged in the bins behind his childhood apartment in New York, and had a vivid mental image of Rocket popping out of a trashcan, gun and all. He bit back a laugh at the thought. The prickly little creature probably wouldn’t appreciate the joke.

Rocket suddenly tensed, whiskers twitching.

“What is it?” Bucky looked around, but couldn’t see anything.

“Someone’s coming,” the raccoonoid swung his gun around, aiming at where they had just passed.

Bucky switched his mic on. “Romanoff?” he whispered.

For a moment, there was only silence. Bucky waited, holding his breath. All the fur on Rocket’s neck stood up.

“There you are!”

Bucky lowered his gun, sighing with relief as Romanoff and Loki rounded the corner.

“We thought you’d gotten lost,” said Romanoff, a flicker of genuine relief barely audible before she cleared her throat and resumed practiced practicality. “We set off one of the explosions, but there’s still the illusions left to do, and we need a full team for that.”

“We tried to get to you. There were a lot more aliens than we thought,” Bucky explained.

“Well, you’re here now. Let’s finish this up.”

“We can’t,” said Loki. “My Rendelian crystal is missing!”

Romanoff gave him a look of flat disbelief. “Don’t tell me you _lost_ it?”

He huffed in frustration. “I had it right here, in my pocket! Rendelian crystals don’t just get up and walk away!”

“You’ll have to do without it,” said Romanoff impatiently. “We don’t have time for this!”

“I needed that crystal to channel my power! I can’t create that kind of illusion without some kind of focus!”

“Sounds important,” said Rocket innocently.

Bucky cast him a sharp look. Years of dealing with Steve’s bullshit had made him _very_ familiar with that particular tone, and it never meant anything but trouble.

“Yes, it is!”

“Valuable, too.”

“It’s practically priceless!”

Rocket reached into his pocket, smirking. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d be willing to give it back to you for, say, a few thousand units.”

There was a taut moment of silence, like the instant before the release of a bowstring. The scene could have been a photograph: Rocket smirking, Romanoff wary, Loki slowly going incandescent with rage. Bucky could almost hear the snap when it broke.

“You!” Loki snarled. “You insulting, insufferable little freak!” He lunged towards Rocket with incredible speed.

The raccoonoid hunkered down on all fours on instinct, fur bristling, but Loki was too quick, grabbing Rocket by the scruff of his neck and held him dangling, snarling and spitting.

“I’m going to skin you alive and roast you on a spit, you little animal!” He jabbed a finger at Rocket’s snarling muzzle. “I don’t know who made you, but they should’ve killed you the first chance they got. You rat! I…”

 _Click-click._ The mischief-maker stopped short, the barrel of Bucky’s rifle pointed squarely between his eyes.

“Put. Him. Down,” Bucky whispered dangerously.

Loki’s expression shifted from furious to incredulous before settling on fear as he stared at Bucky’s murderous face.

Bucky’s rifle didn’t waver; rage was coursing through him, cold and hard and dangerous as ice. “I’m not asking again. Release him.”

The Asguardian swallowed, then let go, dropping Rocket to land all fours on the ground.

Bucky slammed Loki against the wall, arm to his throat. He’d rather scare the man than kill him, but right now, he wouldn’t be shedding any tears if he gave Loki a few bruises to remember him by.

“I won’t be told what to do…” Loki’s breath shook as Bucky pressed his arm harder into his neck, pinning him to the wall.

“You will apologize to him. You will respect him and you will _never_ speak that way to him again. And if you threaten him one more time…”

“Boys,” Romanoff drawled, still leaning against the opposite wall of the alley, “Let’s calm down a bit, shall we?”

“Apologize,” Bucky growled, drawing a knife from his belt. “Now.”

“Barnes, come on, calm down.”

“It’s— just—a rodent,” Loki choked out, either stupid or suicidally confident.

“Yeah,” said Bucky, baring his teeth. “And I’m just a brain-damaged assassin.” He touched the knife tip to the place where Loki’s ear met his skull; a cut there wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt like hell. “I don’t like bullies, pal. You got five seconds.”

“Alright!” gasped Loki. “Alright! I’m—sorry. There. Happy?”

“What are you sorry for? Tell him, not me.”

“I’m sorry I called him—you—those things! And threatened you!”

“And…?”

“And I won’t do it again!”

Bucky stepped back, letting him fall. Turning, he caught Rocket’s eyes.

“You crazy son of a bitch.” Rocket’s tone sounded closer to awe than anger. “I coulda handled him.”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, sheathing his knife and picking up the rifle. “But I don’t let nobody talk to my friends like that. Not on my watch.”

Rocket opened his mouth, then closed it again, apparently at a loss for words. Before anything else could be said, Romanoff stepped in.

“Okay, if we’re done with all the posturing, could we please focus, here? Rocket, why don’t you hand Loki the damned crystal, and we can get this over with.”

Wordlessly, Rocket threw the thing to Loki, who accepted it with a grunt.

“Follow me,” Romanoff ordered, and the rest of them stepped in line behind her.

Rocket trailed behind Bucky, running a hand through his fur. “Uhhh, listen… thanks for what you did back there.”

Bucky glanced down at him, a smile coming to his face. “Any time,” he said sincerely.

It felt good to stand up for someone again, to do something simple and good. It had been a long time since he defended people, protected them. _Steve would be proud._ The thought of it made his smile widen as they headed out.

__

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Rocket dove out of the way as the delivery van he’d been sheltering behind vaporized under an energy bolt from an alien gun. “Bucky, where the hell are you?”

Three shots rang out in quick succession, followed by a sudden silence.

“Taking out the sniper,” said Bucky over the coms. “You okay?”

“Of course I am, humie. Take a little more than that to take _me_ out,” Rocket bluffed, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing. “We done here, or what?”

He still couldn’t see Bucky; the guy was on the rooftops somewhere, but he seemed to have an ability to blend in just about anywhere. Off in the distance, the illusions Loki had set continued to flare and crackle like fireworks. They needed to get out of here, before Thanos’s troops caught them.

“Romanoff?” Bucky asked. “What are your orders?”

Silence.

“Romanoff?”

Another, nerve-wracking silence, then a cough, then Romanoff’s voice. “Yeah, I— sorry. My com got—” She broke off.

“What the hell is going on?” Rocket demanded. “We need to get out of here!”

“Much as I hate to agree with the—”

“Shut up, Loki,” Bucky snapped. “I’ve got Romanoff. Meet me by that— is that a burger place? Whatever. The place with the sign.”

Rocket hurried to the storefront indicated, ears swiveling to catch any hint of attackers. Nothing moved; for the moment, their little section of the city seemed to be deserted. Loki met him at the door, pointedly looking over his head, like it was beneath him to acknowledge a _rodent_ . Rocket gave a little hiss. _Same to you, asshole._

“Hurry up, Bucky,” he snapped into his com. “We don’t got all day.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he rounded the corner, carrying—oh. He was carrying Romanoff, and the way her head was lolling against his chest did not bode well.

“What happened to her?” Rocket demanded, hurrying forward.

“Knife wound, maybe broken ribs, not sure what else,” said Bucky. “She was under a pile of dead aliens when I found her. Loki, I’m gonna need that coat.”

“I—”  
Bucky gave him a dark look. “Coat. Now.”

Loki huffed, but stripped off his coat and handed it over.

 

“You two keep a lookout. I’m gonna bandage her up.” Bucky laid Romanoff on one of the tables inside, cushioning her head on his own jacket, then began cutting Loki’s coat into strips. The knife was still stuck in her thigh, which was probably the reason she hadn’t bled out already—but there was no way they could get her back to the Milano without jostling it. It needed to come out.

 _At least she’s already unconscious,_ he thought, and set about making a tourniquet.

 

Romanoff woke up just as Bucky finished bandaging her.

“Fuck,” she groaned, and then, “Barnes?”

“Hi,” he said, ridiculously awkward for someone who had her blood all over his hands. Then again, maybe that had something to do with his awkwardness. Usually being covered in blood didn’t mean he’d just saved someone. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” she said drily. “Which is honestly more than I was expecting, so I’ll take it.” She pushed herself up on her elbows, uttering a slight hiss of pain. “What’s the damage?”

“It missed your femoral artery by about half a centimeter,” he told her. “I put a tourniquet on and packed it with those vibranium bead things of Shuri’s. Other than that—I think you’ve got at least one broken rib, but nothing’s poking through, so I’m gonna assume you’re not about to collapse a lung. Did you hit your head?”

Romanoff shook her head. “Nope, just— moved wrong, fainted.” She looked disgruntled. “I hate it when I do that.”

“It happens to the best of us,” he assured her solemnly.

“Super-soldiers,” she muttered. “Okay, we need to get out of here, back to the pod. Are Rocket and Loki okay?”

“They’re fine. We need to get you to the Milano before you lose any more blood— or before that tourniquet starts causing problems. The pod’s too far away.”

“I see.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t suppose Thanos’s minions left any alien ships lying around here?”

“Hey guys!” Rocket called from outside. “There’s a bunch of hoverbikes out here!”

 

As it turned out, only one of the hoverbikes was working, but one was all they needed. After a short debate, Loki and Romanoff took the bike back to the Milano, as (a) Loki could create illusions to mask their presence, lessening the risk of them being attacked, (b) Romanoff needed someone bigger than her to support her in case she lost consciousness again, and (c) there was no way Bucky was leaving Loki and Rocket alone together.

As the hoverbike disappeared into the distance, Rocket turned to Bucky. “Well, guess it’s just us again.”

“Yeah.” Bucky wiped his bloody hands on his pants, then slung his rifle over his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get back to the shuttle.”

___

“Groot!” Rocket launched himself at his friend, wrapping his arms around Groot’s legs as far as they would go. “Buddy! Are you okay? You ain’t hurt?”

“I am Groot.”

“What d’you mean, ‘Of course not’? You coulda been— you coulda been—” Rocket’s words were lost as he wound his arms even more tightly around the tree-like creature’s leg. The teen rolled his eyes, making an annoyed huff, but he made no attempt to pry Rocket off of him, and even grew several vines around the raccoonoid’s torso in what Bucky could only interpret as a tight hug.

Bucky snorted, and tried to cover it with a cough.

Rocket glared at him. “You got a problem, pal?”

“Not me,” said Bucky innocently, but he couldn’t quite keep the smirk off his face. “Just gotta say, for a guy who goes on about other people being _bleeding hearts_ , you’re kind of a sap.”

Rocket’s reply was drowned out by a shout from down the hall.

“You didn’t tell me he was here!” Steve came barreling into the room like he was about to take down the entire Third Reich, and skidded to a halt in front of Bucky.

“Bucky!” he said breathlessly. “Are you— I mean—can I—”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Just get over here, Stevie.”

Apparently that was all it took, because the next second, he was enveloped in Steve’s arms, with Steve’s face buried in his shoulder. Bucky held on tight, bringing his right hand up to cradle the back of Steve’s head.

“Yeah, okay, darlin’. I got you. You’re okay.”

“I thought I lost you,” Steve mumbled into his shoulder. “When they came back , and Nat was injured, and you weren’t—you weren’t—”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Bucky rubbed his back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “But I’m okay. I came back, Steve. I came back to you.”

Behind him, Rocket said something in a sarcastic tone that probably meant it was directed at him. He turned his head enough to look over at the raccoonoid.

“What was that?”

Rocket crossed his arms, but his whiskers were twitching in what Bucky was pretty sure was a grin. “I said, it takes one to know one, buster.”

Bucky patted Steve’s hair, noticing that Groot’s— tendrils? Vines? Appendages—were still wrapped firmly around Rocket. Something was expanding in his chest, a great, light pressure like a balloon, filling his lungs and heart and buoying him up. It took a moment to recognize the feeling as _happiness._

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Yeah, it does.”

**_THE END_ **

**Author's Note:**

> "Here's another fine mess you've gotten me into" is a catchphrase from the comedy show Laurel and Hardy, popular from the 1920s to mid-40s.  
> Rocket's explanation of who Groot is is based on James Gunn's tweet about new-Groot, which states that he's a different person from old-Groot.


End file.
